


Laundry and its Consequences

by CumberCurlyGirl



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, John is a Bit Not Good, John is an adrenaline junkie, Johnlock - Freeform, Laundry, M/M, Mild BDSM, Punishment, Riding Crops, fluffy BDSM, redpants, redpants promts, redpantsmonday, toplock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-21
Updated: 2019-10-21
Packaged: 2020-12-27 20:24:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21124712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CumberCurlyGirl/pseuds/CumberCurlyGirl
Summary: After a dearth of dangerous cases, John is feeling the need for a rush. When he comes across one of Sherlock's shirts on laundry day, he has an idea.





	Laundry and its Consequences

**Author's Note:**

> For the October 2019 Red pants prompt "Laundry Day"

“John!”

The sound echoed through the flat, loud enough that even Mrs Hudson may have heard it. John hoped he wouldn’t hear her footsteps on the stairs. He didn’t need her barging in to see what was wrong. Their landlady was sweet and well-meaning, and kept them in tea and biscuits, but he didn’t want the interruption today. John had plans.

“John!” The voice was closer now, booming, and quick footsteps accompanied it. John settled back in his chair and pretended to read the paper. He tried to remember to breathe so that his cheeks wouldn’t flush, giving himself away too soon.

A shadow fell across him as the tall figure stood between the chair in which he was sitting and the window. Still, John didn’t look up. “Hmmm, what is it?” he said, with as much casualness as he could muster.

“Look. At. Me.” The voice was low and measured and carried an undercurrent of rage. It was beautiful. In a terrifying sort of way. 

Slowly, John raised his eyes above the newspaper to gaze at his flatmate.

Sherlock was in his dressing gown. The blue one. John’s favourite. It was tied loosely about his waist and hung open at the top, revealing a triangle of milky skin. John’s eyes travelled higher, up the miles of neck, over the lush lips and retroussé nose to finally meet Sherlock’s eyes which were narrowed and looked almost black, because of the shadows or because of rage, John couldn’t be sure.

“What are you on about, Sherlock?”

John knew perfectly well what Sherlock was on about. Yesterday was laundry day, and John had done his laundry as usual but with one small, but oh, so consequential, deviation. When gathering his soiled clothing, he’d found, behind his bed, one of Sherlock’s shirts. One of his flatmate’s favourites. White. Bespoke. He’d brought it to his nose and inhaled deeply. It smelled of Sherlock’s sweat and cologne, a combination that sent little tingles down John's spine.

He had thrown it over his shoulder, intending to return it to Sherlock, who always sent his shirts out to be cleaned, but then, a devilish thought had occurred to him and he had grinned to himself. He had pulled the shirt from his shoulder and tucked it into his laundry basket, right under several pair of his own pants. Red ones.

“This! This is what I’m talking about, John!” Sherlock held up the white shirt. Except now it wasn’t white. Now it was a pale pink colour, blotched with spots of darker pink.

“Oh yeah, that.”

“My best shirt, John. Ruined.” Sherlock looked positively murderous, and John’s stomach fluttered.

“You must have left it in my room. It got mixed up in my laundry. Sorry, Sherlock. Really I am.” John held Sherlock’s gaze for a moment, and he saw understanding register in those intelligent, singular eyes.

“We haven’t had a case for a while, have we?” Sherlock asked slowly. “At least not a dangerous one.”

“No. It’s been quite a dry spell. All forgeries and cheating husbands. Bloody boring.”

“Complex and fascinating cases, satisfying for **me, **John. But I recognise that you have…different, shall we say, baser, needs.”

John sighed but said nothing. He was used to Sherlock insulting his intellect, and besides, the situation was beginning to look promising.

There was a faint rap at the door, and John heard it creak open.

“Boys. Is everything all right? I heard shouting.”

“It’s fine, Mrs Hudson. John and I are having a discussion. Nothing to worry about. But I expect the…discussion to continue for a bit. It may get loud. I suggest you put on your headphones, listen to some music so that we don’t disturb you. Now please leave.” Sherlock made a shooing gesture, and John heard the door snick shut.

Sherlock turned his attention back to John. “Now. What shall we do about this?” He held up the pink shirt, one eyebrow raised.

John’s heart was beginning to thump in his chest. He swallowed hard.

“I can’t let this pass, John. My favourite white shirt.” He shook his head. “Have you ever seen me wear a pink shirt? Do I own anything pink? At all?”

“No,” John whispered.

Sherlock bent and grasped John’s chin with his thumb and forefinger, lifting it so that their faces were mere centimetres apart.

“What did you say?”

“No, Sir.” John corrected.

“Better,” Sherlock said. “Now, John, this is what you are going to do. You will go to my bedroom and get the crop and purple flogger. And undress. I can’t be arsed to undress you myself. I’m going to have some coffee.” 

******

When John came back into the sitting room, naked, and with the requested implements in hand, Sherlock was in his chair, clicking away on his laptop. A steaming mug of coffee sat beside him on the table. He looked up briefly when John entered, then back down at the screen. “Put them beside your chair. Then kneel on it and hold onto the back. I’ll take care of you in a minute.”

The git was going to make him wait.

Obediently, John placed the flogger and the crop on the table beside his chair and assumed the position that Sherlock had requested. Kneeling on the chair with his bare arse facing Sherlock, he waited. He could hear the fingers flying over the keyboard. Who knew what he was really doing? Probably playing Candy Crush and just enjoying the fact that John was waiting for him. Needing him. Needing the pain.

The anticipation was making it hard to keep still, and he shifted restlessly. He had been hoping for Sherlock’s hand. Just one of those hands could completely cover one of his arse-cheeks and cause an explosion of fiery bliss. Plus, it was more personal, flesh against flesh and even better if he were over Sherlock’s lap. His half-hard cock jumped at the very thought. If Sherlock were looking, he had surely seen it.

He glanced over his shoulder. Sherlock was still seated languidly in his chair. The laptop was set aside, and he was sipping his coffee, watching John with cat-like eyes.

“You wanted me to spank you.” It was a statement, not a question.

“Yes, Sir.” 

Sherlock smiled evilly. “That’s precisely why I’m not going to.” He put down his mug and stood.

******

Sweat dripped from John’s brow and into his eyes. He brushed his forehead against the back of the chair to dry it. Sherlock had started with the flogger, warming John up. It thudded against his buttocks and thighs, not painful, just a pleasant pressure. A tease. But not for long.

The blows soon came harder. Faster. Snapping against his flesh. Thwap. Thwap. Thwap. Now it was starting to sting. John moaned around the fabric of Sherlock’s formerly white, now pink shirt which was stuffed into his mouth. His arse was burning and likely bruised, and Sherlock hadn’t even used the crop yet. It was glorious. The endorphins were flowing freely and swaddling him in a beautiful haze of pain. **Thwap.** One final blow rocked him forward, eliciting another moan. Given a reprieve, he exhaled hard through his nose.

He felt a cool hand on his abused flesh and then the press of lips to his shoulder. “My John. You are lovely,” Sherlock murmured in that sinfully silky voice. “Shall I continue?”

John nodded, then watched as Sherlock picked up the crop and flicked it through the air a few times, testing the flexibility. It had a leather strap on the handle and Sherlock slipped it over his wrist. Sherlock was strong for such a slender man, and John often wondered how he maintained his strength. Most of the time he never seemed to expend extra energy or make unnecessary movements. John could swear he’d seen Sherlock completely motionless for five hours at a time. But when it was necessary, or when he was in one of his manias, he could bend a poker, run for miles, or fight off multiple armed attackers. He was indeed a wonder, and John was happy that he was about to be the beneficiary of Sherlock’s unlikely strength.

The first blow was like a streak of fire across his already burning arse and the second followed quickly. Even through the two-ply Egyptian cotton shirt in his mouth, which had probably cost more than all John's own shirts combined, his shout filled the room, and he hoped that Mrs Hudson had taken Sherlock’s advice about the headphones.

Again and again the crop landed, Sherlock skillfully applying the strokes so as not to overlay one with another. He moved behind John to vary the placement and intensity. John’s eyes were closed, and his forehead now lay against the back of the chair. His cock was fully hard and dribbling onto the Union Jack pillow. 

This. This is what he needed. What he craved. The adrenaline rush. The pure sensation. Every nerve ending alert. This is why he had loved being a soldier. Warfare was a different sort of rush but in some ways the same. It scratched the same itch.

“You can do better than that, John.” A particularly wicked blow landed on his upper thigh, and he cried out.

“Good, Love,” said Sherlock. 

_Love. _It always made him feel warm when Sherlock called him Love. He was pretty sure no one would believe that that word had ever crossed the detective’s lips. It was their secret. He was the only one who knew that side of Sherlock. The tender side. The side that made John breakfast in bed when he was ill. The side that held his hand when they watched telly on the sofa. The side that was beating him mercilessly because that’s what John needed right then.

“Spread your arse. John.”

_Oh, shit. _

“Now.”

Apparently, Sherlock was genuinely angry about the shirt and was about to show his displeasure. Up to this point it had all been for John, but these next blows were going to be true retribution.

John reached behind him and grasped his cheeks. They were scorching hot.

“More.”

John obliged, exposing the most intimate, most sensitive part of himself to Sherlock’s wrath. He had a safeword. He could end this at any time. But there was no way he was going to do that. _No way in hell._

“Are you ready, John?”

“He nodded.”

Pain, bright and exquisite in its intensity, exploded on his bum, and lights danced behind his eyelids as the crop landed across his arsehole and the soft flesh surrounding it. Once. Twice. Three times. His whole world was transformed at that moment to one gigantic all-consuming black hole of sensation, and he was falling through it, then floating. Light as air.

******

“Talk to me, John.” The fabric was removed from his mouth, and Sherlock eased him to his feet, pulling him the few steps to the other chair and up onto his lap.

“Mmmmm,” was all John could manage, curling up against Sherlock’s chest.

Sherlock stroked his hair and kissed his forehead, then coaxed him to drink some water.

“Better now?”

“Much better. Thank you.”

“Good. Because I’m not done with you yet. As you are sitting in my lap, I’m sure you can deduce that you have aroused me, doctor.” John could indeed feel Sherlock’s erection against his thigh. "You'll take care of that now,” Sherlock continued. 

******

An hour later, after they’d showered and dressed, Sherlock was sitting at the kitchen table, adjusting his microscope, and John was standing at the sink, a cup of tea in hand. He wouldn’t be sitting anytime soon.

Sherlock looked up from the microscope. “Oh, John. I forgot to tell you. A new case came in this morning.”

“Let me guess. Another forgery? Or maybe a lost dog?”

Sherlock’s eyes sparkled, and the crinkles that drove John mad appeared at their corners as he smiled broadly. “Oh John, I think you’ll like this one. It’s a quadruple homicide in Convent Garden. I believe it’s linked to the Russian mafia and the drug trade. Lestrade will be here in an hour. It sounds very dangerous. The ‘Game’ is most definitely on!”

John put down his cup.

“When did you know about this, Sherlock?”

“I told you. It came in this morning. While you were kneeling bare-arsed on the chair. You seemed so eager that I didn’t want to bother you with it.”

John was sputtering now. “You…You…You utter dick! You went ahead with that little scene in there even though you knew there was a fantastic case, a dangerous case?”

“Oh, get off it, John, you enjoyed every minute,” Sherlock scoffed. "And there was no way I was going to let you get away with ruining my shirt.”

“Yeah, I suppose you’re right.” John agreed.

“I'm always right. Surely you know that by now." Sherlock was trying for a stern face but failed miserably, one corner of his mouth quirking up in a dimpled smile, and his eyes soft. "Come here.”

Sherlock rose, and John went to him. They embraced. They kissed. Sherlock stroked the back of John’s neck, and John pressed his cheek to Sherlock’s shoulder.

“It’s a good start to the day, don’t you think?” Sherlock whispered.

“The best,” John said.

**Author's Note:**

> you can view the artwork for this fic [here](http://fav.me/ddis4yk)


End file.
